Beth,
You can’t imagine how relieved I was to get your letter. And how happy I am that everything is not only all right but rosy in your world. Your farm sounds magnificent and so does your life. Though the letter was too short and didn’t give enough details. I forgive you.
You sent your letter before you got mine, and so I just want to say that you should please ignore the last postscript. It was a moment of weakness. I know you’re still waiting for me and counting on me. I know you and I know us and I’m sorry that for a moment I lost my faith.
Since I last wrote I’ve been out on three dates with I’msorryforyourloss (real name Christopher, apparently). I know what I said about him, but he’s very nice and harmless and it makes Mother happy. And everyone’s spirits have seemed to lift in recent weeks since the official end of mourning—we had a family game of badminton in the yard last Friday, and I even hear Vera and Hubert laughing together sometimes. It’s odd, because I find that while everyone’s getting better, I’m about the same.
I spent all weekend helping James with the roof. It’s strange: we see each other rarely, and some days we’re delighted to spend time together and laugh and joke around—especially about inappropriate things like “limbless Larries” (how James refers to the men at the convalescent home, whom Mother visits with baskets of food). Other days, I have to admit, we can’t stand each other. I get in these unpredictable angry moods, and I think James gets angry too.
Sunday was one of those days. I’d come to help. The work is hard, and I have my doubts about whether repairing the roof of a house no one will ever live in is the best use of our time. James was having a lot of pain, which always makes him irritable.
He was barking orders at me to lay the sticks this way and that, as if he’s any better of an architect than I am, and his loud raspy breathing was getting on my nerves even though I know that technically he can’t help it and I’m an awful person for feeling that way.
I felt like taking a jab at him, so I decided to steer the conversation to his parents and why—if they’re traveling all over the world doing things he also loves doing—they didn’t take him with them. I wanted to fluster him and get him to be truthful for once, but he didn’t seem flustered at all.
“I did go with them once,” he answered, “when I was a little boy, for a two-year voyage. When I came back I had no social skills.”
“That explains so much,” I said.
“Allstock, we both know I’m charming.” He was serious, and he said it so matter-of-factly it annoyed me. “Anyway, I’m going with them on the next one.”
“And what does your fiancée think about your plans to leave her for the other side of the world?”
Suddenly, I knew I had him. He paused, startled, and stared up at the roof where he’d been preparing to climb. He let out a small, slow breath. “She’s patient,” he finally said. Then he offered a jab of his own. “What’s new with you? Has your imaginary friend offered a reason for all her silences? I suppose it’s hard to tell someone you’re not writing to them because slowly you’re forgetting them.”
Long story short, I ended up telling him about when we became blood sisters. Do you remember this, Beth?
We were about eight or nine. We were both going to cut our hands, then let the blood mingle together, so we’d be related to each other forever. It was my idea as usual, because I was always the one putting us up to ridiculous things. I’d gotten a knife from the kitchen. You were supposed to cut first, but at the last moment, you got squeamish and sick to your stomach, so we didn’t do it.
Then, a few weeks later, we were out one afternoon racing with Teddy on the gravel path into town, and you fell and cut your knee. And with sudden inspiration, I ran into the house and came out with a knife.
With Teddy looking on in disbelief, I sliced the knife down the center of my palm before I could let myself be afraid, and then I made you lie still so I could stick my hand onto your knee and squash all the blood in. I still remember the look on your face, though I couldn’t read it. Were you put off by my crazy determination?
“Beth always said I could be bossy,” I admitted to James.
“I think she must have meant fearless.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’m afraid of a lot of things.” He raised his eyebrows, wanting me to go on. “But I’m not a coward. That’s one thing I could never be. I’d hate myself. That’s why I could do it, cut my hand like that.”
James considered that. “Did you ever find out why Beth lied to you about the Cup?”
It was a strange question, out of nowhere. And I don’t know the answer, and it doesn’t seem important.
“And what did Teddy think of the whole episode?” he went on, switching the subject back.
“He thought we were insane.”
“I agree with your brother.”
I smiled. It’s strange, but I’m better at thinking of Teddy when I’m with James than when I’m alone. Maybe it’s that I can’t help Teddy (I would give anything to help him; I’d give anything to take part of his death for myself so he didn’t have to be completely dead), but I can help James . . . make him laugh sometimes, even though we often just irritate each other.
And that’s something. Though I don’t know whether it makes me sad or happy or just uncomfortable. Like something is raw in my chest.
You can tell by the way he talks about his fiancée how in love he is—even the way he says her name—it’s like he’s holding little bird bones gently between his lips, careful not to break them. I wonder if that’s the way you feel now too, now that you’ve found someone.
Where are you, Beth? You wrote to me, but it feels like you were absent behind the words. James says that he calls you imaginary because you’re so long gone that I can make of you in my head what I want to. But he doesn’t know that half the time, it seems like I’m imagining even him, even myself.
Sometimes it feels like you’re the only person who is real to me anymore, even though I never see you. And it scares me that you’re slipping away.
LATER—
I’ve just picked my pen up again and now it’s the middle of the night. I need to confess something to you, Beth. I haven’t been completely honest. I know what’s been making me so angry.